Vincent bowed. "Certainly I'd trust your man, Will. But I've some objections to that course. I've no intention of starting stables. I run Castor merely to try your Doris and test my own animal. I don't want to be known as deeply interested in the turf. Get a professional rider fastened to you even by one race, and—poof! You all know what it means."
The group nodded. Vincent Trevor was a man highly respected by all of them. He was quiet, silent, of excellent judgment, a little given to over-Toryism, no prig, but holding fast to strong principles. His friends knew his manner of life, and never expected him to step beyond its bounds. In the present case they all perceived his position, and his silence was rather dubious, till Claude de Mailly most unexpectedly broke it.
"This race—it would not be in public?"
"Oh no. Certainly not," responded Sir Charles.
"It would be—on a track, or through the country, à l'anglais?"
"Oh, track, of course—not a steeple-chase—eh, Trevor?" queried Jennings, and Vincent nodded, looking to de Mailly for more.
"And the leagues—miles, I mean—how many?"
"Track's a mile and a quarter. Shall it be twice round?"
"Castor will hold twice, but would you try Doris so?"
"Tut, tut, Vincent! Doris isn't china. She'll not break so vastly easy. Egad, we'll make it three rounds, if you like!"